


The Goats and Maths of Christmas

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Gift Giving, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Gift-giving for their first Christmas together was a highly-negotiated thing.  That Mycroft is trying to cheat should come as no surprise whatsoever...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 40
Kudos: 202
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2020





	The Goats and Maths of Christmas

Greg adored shopping with Mycroft when the shopping was for Mycroft. The places they visited… Mycroft’s tailor, the high-end shops for what Mycroft termed ‘little things’ like socks, underpants, pocket squares, scarves and what passed for his lover’s casual attire… they were like a storybook world. Rich smells of wood and fabrics and long-standing traditions. The holiday decoration was present and exactly as subtle and tasteful as one might imagine. The tones were hushed, the colors rich and deep… gorgeous. Of course, even a gorgeous storybook world might host a evil troll which, today, might look suspiciously like Mycroft Holmes.

“No! Mycroft, I absolutely will not consider it. Under no circumstances.”

The great battle of the posh jumper was well underway.

“I fail to understand why. The color is perfect for you, it is finger-beckoningly soft…”

“That’s more for you than for me and you know it.”

“Irrelevant. The warmth, Gregory. Consider the warmth.”

“I can be just as warm wearing a bit of wool.”

“Wool is not, however, finger-beckoningly soft.”

“That’s cashmere! And, I have no doubt whatsoever, costs as much as umpteen quadrillion bits of wool.”

“You have utterly besmirched the sanctity of mathematics. At Christmas. Have you no morals?”

“I’ve got plenty of morals, which is why I am not going to accept a cashmere jumper, finger-beckoningly soft or not, as what you have christened, my starter gift. Which implies it only opens the door to more extreme flights of farthings that I refuse to contemplate for fear of being told, yet again, I despoiled maths sanctity.”

“But Gregory…”

“Nope! A simple Christmas. We agreed.”

“There is little simpler than cashmere. Shave a goat and begin… whatever it is one does to fashion a garment.”

“A book!”

“Shaving a book would certainly not yield the same result.”

“Oh my god… simple gifts! A book. Socks. A new razor. Cologne…”

“Eau de Goat is not a fragrance I want to smell upon your person.”

“Forget the goats! You’re worse than Sherlock.”

“No creature in the history of evolved life is worse than Sherlock, so your point is nonsensical.”

Mycroft smiled proudly while Greg glared daggers forged from tinsel and icicles into his face. He loved Mycroft Holmes. Loved him with all his heart. When the idea of cohabitation had been broached, he hadn’t hesitated to agree. That agreement, however, came with a few stipulations which initiated long and heated rounds of negotiation. Which, since Mycroft had a serious negotiation kink, initiated long and heated rounds of sex. The culmination of all that long and heated business were some reasonable compromises on the topic of money.

Mycroft had loads. More than loads. Mega-loads. Beyond umpteen quadrillion loads. He didn’t. Not a poor man by any stretch of the imagination. A DI made a good wage. It wasn’t an umpteen quadrillion wage, though. He couldn’t charter a private plane to take them skiing in Switzerland for the weekend, for example. Which Mycroft had done once while they were still in the dating stage, though they had agreed that men of their maturity would never be caught dead doing something as juvenile as dating. They ‘kept company,’ which was true and sufficiently old-fashioned that it suited his lover’s traditional streak to perfection.

One of the bratillion… umpteen bratillion… paragraphs of their negotiated agreement covered the giving of gifts at holidays. Thought was paramount, cost was not. Birthdays could be a bit indulgent but Christmas was another matter. It was a joint holiday, a home and hearth holiday, so any enormous gifts had to benefit their joint home and hearth. A new telly? Fine. A trip? If their schedules permitted it, sure. But personal gifts should be more modest. They didn’t have to come from a pound shop, but _should_ reflect more the thought behind it than the size of the account funding it. There was still leeway, of course, but something as pointless and costly as a cashmere jumper leapt over the leeway line in a single bound. Like Father Christmas. Though his bounding was down a chimney so that didn’t really fit, did it…

“We are keeping with our agreement, Mycroft, to not throw money at Christmas and hope it makes the season all the merrier.”

“Throwing money would certain not accomplish that task for coins hurt if hurled at sufficient speed and banknotes limply flutter like over-fattened confetti, which really offers little to inspire holiday cheer.”

Marvelous.

“Mycroft…”

“It is a jumper! A garment. There is not a more practical gift imaginable.”

“And I’d love a new jumper! Just not one that costs £150!”

He’s laughing. Oh no…

“How much is it?”

“Somewhat… more.”

“How much more?”

“Umpteen goats more.”

“Shit. No! I admit it looks properly thick, not like those weedy specimens I see at most of the shops I visit, and I wager it’d look nice on me…”

“You would glow from both the warmth and from it’s accentuation of your natural, and considerable, masculine splendor.”

Thank you. But you’re still a bastard.

“Be that as it may… I do not have umpteen goats in my paddock, so you’ll have to scale down. I’d love a new jumper and I appreciate that you found one that would be amazing to own and wear, but… you know me, love. I’m a fumbley-fingered fellow at the best of times and I’d never wear that lovely thing because I’d be terrified to spill coffee, lunch, whatever on it and bring it to ruin. It’d be money down the toilet and that doesn’t sit right, especially at Christmas.”

“But Gregory…”

“My foot has been put down and not an inch shall it lift!”

“Pooh.”

“Certainly didn’t have a cashmere jumper that cost as much as a fraquliion of his honey pots.”

“Perhaps that is why he could not afford trousers.”

“You might be onto something.”

___________

Greg was fully on guard as the days crept towards Christmas, shaking and sniffing each wrapped package that appeared under the tree for any trace of goat-based evidence and wondered if Father Christmas left gifts for suspicious little boys who may or may not have veered fully into paranoia and lunacy because of jumpers. It didn’t help that his lover would set down a box, exquisitely and precisely wrapped as only Mycroft could manage, and then smile a knowing smile. A knowing smile! That meant something. Or he was being manipulated into being suspicious and paranoid and loony as revenge for previous goat refusal.

That he made it Christmas Eve with hair remaining on his head and lacking any form of nervous tremor was a miracle. And, as agreed, they would celebrate with a glass of good wine, a fire, an old and venerated Christmas film and a gift. One. One gift per person. Others would wait until tomorrow, including whatever each snuck down the stairs when they thought the other was asleep to stuff into the stockings that hung by the fire.

“Are we ready, love?”

The box on Greg’s lap was accompanied by one on Mycroft’s, though one was wrapped by a fumbley-fingered fellow who wore a wisp of ribbon in his hair for an entire day after he did his wrapping in his office and it became a team wager as to when he’d realize how festive he looked. That festive gent was currently beaming bright at the sight of his lover giving his gift an appreciative heft and shining with childlike excitement.

“I most certainly am ready. Eager, even! This… this is heavy…”

Which is right and proper since everyone knows nearly from the cradle that large, heavy wrapped gifts are going to be magical. Let’s hope it proves true yet again, because I really want you to be happy.

“Then open it! Get that heavy bloody thing off your tender thighs once and for all.”

“Shall another heavy bloody… and deliciously sensual… thing find its way _onto_ my tender thighs later tonight?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Then open this I shall.”

Nimble fingers made short…ish… work of the layers of tape, paper and ribbon to reach the sturdy cardboard shrouding the gift, which a small lift of the lid finally revealed.

“Truly, Gregory?”

“Go ahead, open it up. They won’t bite.”

This time the nimble fingers fully lifted the lid off of the box to reveal the rows, and columns! of thin paperback books which Mycroft recognized instantly. And with great, great fondness.

“The Target Doctor Who novelizations.”

“Yes! I know you had some as a lad because you mentioned it a time or two but I had the sense that you didn’t have all of them. I asked your mum what she remembered and it wasn’t much besides what you had before going to Uni were in her attic. When you were in Geneva that week, I paid a visit and collected what I could find. Some weren’t salvageable, because of mousey nibbles or other reasons, but most were and I filled in the lot so it’s a complete set, including those they did much later you’d likely never have bought. At least, I’d never seen them.”

Mycroft stared at the treasure trove of his youth and felt his heart swell from the memories of afternoons in his bedroom devouring the newest series title the local bookshop had in stock, going back to re-read each and every one countless times… when he left for college, it seemed proper to leave such behind but that was the folly of an arrogant youth on the cusp of adulthood, while believing himself already a seasoned example of the breed. Now he knew better and… oh, this was a blessing such as he could not have dreamed.

“Thank you, Gregory. I… I am disbelieving of what I am seeing though I can feel very well that they are real. They were so important to me, so greatly a part of my youth… to have them returned, and supplemented… I cannot express how thankful I am for it.”

“I’ve never read them, so I hope you don’t mind if I sneak one now and again on a quiet afternoon.”

“Mind? I insist upon it! I had no one with whom to discuss my ideas and thoughts on what I read and now… I am giddy at the mere thought of sharing these with you!”

His face lit with pure happiness, Mycroft leaned over and kissed Greg gently on the lips, lingering a moment to savor the sensation only his remarkable lover could provide.

“Sounds as if we have a long string of rainy days booked with plans! I’m glad you like your gift. Given we are watching a bit of Christmasy Doctor Who before our film, I thought it a good one for you to open tonight.”

“It could not be more perfect for the occasion.”

And, noting Greg pulling the blanket more fully on his lap, Mycroft suspected his Christmas Eve gift would also be perfect. And equally as fun. For him, at the very least.

“And now yours, my dear. Not as blissfully nostalgic as mine, however, I think you will approve.”

Greg gave the box a shake and heard only a gentle thump, as if something soft had collided with the sides. The box was rather flat, too. This could be bad…

“Alright… here I go! Though, I hate to destroy the wrapping. You’re very good at that.”

“I know.”

That smug smile definitely fit your statement, Mycroft. But, it could also fit what I’m about to open. I’m scared…

“Ribbon and bow… save for later. Paper…”

“Kindly do not believe it shall be saved, also, for later. We did agree.”

The negotiation for what of the holiday wrapping could be retained for reuse, once Greg saw the exquisite paper Mycroft was using, had been ferocious and bloodthirsty. As had the sex afterwards.

“We did! It will be recycled properly or passed along to my colleagues who will happily reuse it because they’re cheap bastards who will gladly wrap packages in second-hand paper.”

“Very good. Continue on.”

Setting aside the carefully-removed paper, which would be given to Donovan since it was precisely the sort of thing she’d love but would cut off her arm before spending the money on, Greg paused dramatically before lifting the lid of the box. To find…

The Jumper.

“Mycroft… so help me…”

“One moment… kindly lift it from the box.”

Greg scowled darkly until his fingers felt the fibers.

“It’s not… I mean, it’s soft, don’t get me wrong, it’s deliciously soft, but it’s not _finger-beckoningly_ soft.”

“Precisely! Nor is it cashmere.”

“I… Mycroft, this is the jumper you showed me. Exactly the jumper!”

“No, it is not. It is a simulacrum of the jumper.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“The fiber content is not cashmere. It is a rather clever rendering of acrylic, which enables it to be washed easily, with a small percentage of wool, which does not reduce it’s ability to withstand a household washing protocol, but bolsters nicely the warmth.”

Greg stared at the jumper and found his brain completely unable to process… anything.

“It’s the same jumper. Down to the last detail!”

“It is and shall appear as bewitching on you as we both envisioned.”

Still staring and still befuddled, Greg turned the jumper around to examine each and every part. It was _exact_. The color, the style, everything about it. Meaning…

Mycroft had to find someone, possibly even the original designer/tailor, to make the copy.

That person had to find… or make… a fabric or whatever you called jumper material in a cheaper version that still looked shockingly like the original, with only a small loss of softness.

That fabric had to be dyed to an exact match, sewn into the final garment, sent to Mycroft for approval which there was only a 50% chance it would receive, knowing how persnickety his lover could be when it struck his fancy, and modified until it received final benediction.

All for one jumper.

The total cost of that, along with anything else his befuddled brain wasn’t thinking, likely topping that of the original. You fucker. You amazing, adorable, sneaky, loophole-exploiting fucker.

“This is unbelievable, Mycroft. Positively unbelievable.”

“Do feel free to don it. You appear as if a warm jumper would benefit you at the moment.”

It would. The fire was still meandering to that roaring stage so the room was not quite as warm as it should be for a fully-realized Christmas Eve.

“You don’t have to tell me twice…”

Quickly pulling the jumper over his head, Greg felt a shudder of contentment roll through him. _This_ was a jumper. Not one worn purely for appearance but a properly thick and cozy one that warmed you to the bones on cold winter’s nights.

“It fits perfectly.”

“That it does. And the color is as beguiling as I could have hoped. How does it feel?”

“The way it should. Just the right weight, thickness… soft without being the sort of soft that almost feels… not real. It feels like what a working man dreams of wearing when he somehow gets to visit a ski resort to sip hot chocolate in the lodge after a long day on the slopes. Which I have now done, thanks to you, so I can speak with a bit of expertise on the subject.”

Running his hands down the front of his gift, Greg couldn’t stop smiling. His lover was an utter bastard but in the most wonderful ways imaginable.

“I am delighted to hear that, Gregory. I want so dearly to bring you joy, at any time, but especially at the holidays. This house has been a much colder one in years past and on this special night it had seemed all the colder. Now, it is warm. Warm, homey and filled with love. It is my own cozy jumper and one I wear proudly with you by my side.”

Kissing his beloved seemed the meagerest reward for such a speech but Greg could think of nothing better to show how deeply he shared that idea. His own life had been colder, duller in gleam until he was given the greatest gift of all – the man with whom he now shared his life.

“I love it, I really do. And I love you.”

“I love you, also. And am positively awash with anticipation to further enjoy our gifts as part of tonight’s festivities.”

“Start snuggling on the sofa with some Doctor Who on the telly, then postpone the film for some Doctor Who books in our hands instead. With cheese, wine and conversation until the wee hours?”

“Is there ever a time you do not prove you are the man of my dreams, Gregory Lestrade?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me if there is. So we can negotiate me doing a better job of it.”

“I do savor a proper round of negotiation.”

“And the aftermath.”

“Something I might enjoy just a tad more, I do confess.”

“How much more?”

“A gigantillion times more. Give or take.”

“Well then, can’t stand in the way of that level of maths.”

“Most assuredly. In that vein, I shall choose for us two books where I have little doubt your perception of events shall deviate from mine.”

“You are a master of foreplay, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Thank you. I do try.”


End file.
